


Flag

by Hiaennyddei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood, Darkfic, Gen, Horror, Insanity, Lot of blood, depends on how you think Hetalia nations die, somewhat character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4318959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hiaennyddei/pseuds/Hiaennyddei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life used to be a hell. It seems to be ok now. But is this shaking world the reality ? Or one of his numerous dreams ? Trying to get an answer to this question, he'll follow one of his old friend's advice. For better or for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flag

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net at https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8778976/1/Flag  
> Talk about a first fic...
> 
> Warning : Murder, temporary character death, insanity, gore, blood, blood and blood.
> 
> Disclaimer : I don't own Hetalia.

" _I wish I was my own country. "_  

" _We all do."_

" _So why couldn't we claim our independence ?"_

_Lithuania glanced at him, a oh-so-tired expression on the face._

" _If you want to be independent, you'll have to be brave and paint your flag with blood and tears."_

 

* * *

A ceiling.

He was staring at a ceiling.

A second before, Lithuania was here, talking to him, and now there was just a ceiling before him.

Or rather above him. He was laid in a bed.  _His_ bed. In  _his_ room.

He sat up on the mattress, trying to calm his panting breathing down. When his heartbeats came back to their normal rhythm, he closed his eyes and sighed.

"A dream..?"

Maybe.

Or maybe not. Maybe he was in a dream right now, and his discussion with Lithuania was the reality.

He looked around. He was in a comfortable bed, in a large bedroom, in a warm house. He was free. Independent.

The last thing he wanted was to discover that his actual life was just a dream.

"I've… to be sure… that I'm… my own country."

He stood up on shaking feet and walked toward the kitchen. His moves on auto-pilot mode, he prepared his breakfast as his still sleepy mind was slowly waking up. He wanted to be free. He needed to be sure he was. He started sipping his coffe and quickly decided it wasn't going to be enough. With trembling hands, he poured a generous quantity of vodka in his drink before gulping it down. Being sure. At any costs. His throat burnt, the warmth of the alcohol spreading into his body, tuning down his internal turmoil and making his thought process easier.  _First, I need a country about whom nobody will worry if he disappeared for a few weeks…_

When he finished his breakfast, he put his empty cup in the tap and went in the living-room. He grabbed the phone and pressed the redial button. This person was  _always_  the last number anyway.

"H-hello Sealand… D-d-do you want to c-come to my place next S-Saturday ? I know a lake where we could go s-swimming…"

 

**A couple of days later…**

"I didn't know you could drive."

"I-I seem young, b-but I'm eight c-centuries old… Ah, here we are."

The car stopped and the two nations got out. Sealand removed his clothes, keeping only his swimsuit on, and jumped in the lake without waiting his friend. The latter took his clothes of less hurriedly, taking the time to fold them.

When he entered the water, he couldn't help but shiver. Despite the fact that they were in summer, the lake was still cold.

"Hey, what are you waiting for ? C'mon, plunge !" 

_He was afraid._

 "I-I-I-I'm coming !"

  _Afraid that his plan wouldn't work._ He grabbed a sharp stone on the shore and swam to the micronation.  _Afraid that somebody would see him._  He waited until Sealand turned his back to him and brutally hit him on the head.  _Afraid that this wouldn't be enough to knock his friend out._ As the boy was collapsing, out cold, he grabbed the principality's hairs and kept his face under the water.  _Afraid that Sealand wouldn't die just from that._ Bubbles escaped from the boy's mouth. He trashed and struggled with what was probably all his strength, but was no match for his aggressor's own, armed as he was with an actual people and government. His body violently convulsed during a few seconds as his lungs were filling with water, then the spasms stopped, indicating the micronation's death.  _Afraid that he wouldn't be able to swim to the shore with the corpse._ He grabbed his friend by his waist and shook his legs in the cool water. Sealand was lighter than excepted; he reached the bank without troubles.  _Afraid that he couldn't hide the corpse properly._ He dressed the boy again and filled his large pockets with pebbles, then launched the body in the water. A cloud of mud lifted when the micronation touched the bottom, covering his now whitish face in a thin layer of slim.  _Afraid that anything could happen and compromise his plan._ He grabbed his clothes and got dressed without taking the troubles to dry himself, then got in the car and started it. The motor roared when he put his foot down, only wanting to go away from here as soon as possible.

  _Afraid that somebody would find the corpse._

 "Nobody come here anyway… I chose this place specially because of that." he told to himself while driving at break-neck speed on the tight road.

 

**Two weeks later…**

 He pushed the doorknob for the umpteenth time, making sure that the door was locked firmly. He was afraid so afraid afraid  _afraid AFRAID._ Afraid that somebody had found Sealand's corpse, afraid of the economic situation, afraid of his geographic neighbors, afraid of his boss' decisions. Afraid that he could fall asleep and discover that his actual life was just a dream, that he was still another country's slave.

He walked over to the table, grabbed a cup of vodka-ed coffee and drank it all. It was the eighth today, and the nineteenth in three days. He didn't want to fall asleep. He didn't want this to be a dream…

His eyes came to rest on the calendar fixed on the wall. A day, about two weeks earlier, was surrounded by a red line.

"Already… two… weeks..?" he said between two panicked panting.

A pitiful smirk appeared on his twisted-in-fear face.

"It's…enough… I guess…"

Trying to control his nearly epileptic shakings, he grabbed the phone and dialed a number. He pressed the "call" button and brought the phone to his ear, waiting for somebody to hang up.

"Hello ?"

"H-h-hello England, s-sorry if I'm bothering you…"

"Not at all." the grumpy-yet-polite (with him, at least) voice answered. "What do you want ?"

"I was j-just wondering if y-you c-c-could come to my p-place next Monday… I w-w-would like to debate about the ec-c-conomic help…"

"Can't you wait for the next world meeting ?"

"I w-want to prepare m-myself in advance… Ah, and F-F-France will probably be here too, i-is it okay ?"

"Grmbl… All right, I'll be here." And hereupon, the British hung up.

His interlocutor smiled. "The most difficult is done… Now for France… It'll be easier, I guess. He doesn't even need a reason to be invited anyway." he said to himself while searching the Frenchman's number.

 

**Two days later…**

_Driiiiiiiiiiiiiiing !_

"C-coming !"

He quickly walked to the door and opened it. On the doorstep were two blond nations, exactly the same height. But their resemblance wasn't going farther. France, as per usual, was gaudy, well-dressed, his long hairs perfectly combed, and he was wearing a large smile. England was wearing a discreet suit which didn't match at all with his messy hairs, and seemed quite annoyed about sharing a doorstep with his across-the-Channel neighbour.

"Th-thanks for coming, I'm g-g-glad you're here…"

" _Tout le plaisir est pour nous, mon cher~_  "

"Let's go in, I don't want this to last more than necessary."

"Of c-c-course…" He said while moving away to let the two western countries in. "D-d-do you want something t-to drink ?"

"Some tea, please."

"I'd gladly have some of your _cognac_ but I 'm never mixing alcohol and business ever again." Francis said, pursing his lips together. "Therefore s ome water will be  _parfait, merci beaucoup._ " he added, flashing a smile.

The two blonds headed to the living room, bickering about their look and their culture and the economy and the weather, while their host walked in the kitchen. He came back a few minute later with a tray on top of which he had put a glass of water, a cup and a teapot. He put it on the low table, before his guests, then spoke up.

"I'll g-g-g-go and get my paperworks, I'll be b-b-back in a second…"

"OK. Thanks for the tea." England answered before sipping his beverage.

"And the water." France thanked him after swallowing his whole glass in one gulp.

The third nation went out from the living room, headed to the stairs and climbed to the second floor. He quickly went past the corridor and went in his room, then walked to his bed. He slid his hand under the mattress and reached a smooth, cold object, which he grabbed and pulled out to him. It was a short iron dagger, protected by an ebony scabbard decorated with white curved patterns. With a shaky smile, the insane country left his bedroom and walked back to the living-room. In the middle of the room, on the sofa, the two western nations were breathing softly, deeply asleep from the drug their host had poured in their drinks earlier. Said country slowly stepped toward them and drew his weapon, revealing a beautiful stray blade, carved with the same design than his sheath. He felt the fear coming back as he raised the dagger, ready to hit. His breathing became loud and difficult, his heart was beating dangerously fast, and he felt tears running down his cheeks. His whole body was shaking, despite his efforts to keep control of himself. He was afraid, afraid again, afraid afraid  _afraid forever_ …

He suddenly lowered his knife in a nearly horizontal move, cutting France's throat open, then went down for a second strike, this time slicing England's carotids. Blood spurted out from their necks, splashing their murderer, wetting their clothes, splattering on the furniture. The killer put his weapon on the low table before running out from the room. Trying to restrain a nervous laugh, he unlocked the door which was leading to the cellar and rushed down the stairs. When he reached the basement, he pushed the switch. A dirty bulb turned on, lightening a whitish, dull,  _humanoid_ form.

Sealand's corpse was sat against the wall in front of the door, between an old library and a broken chair. All that left from the cheerful boy was a small skeleton, perfectly cleaned by the pikes and others carnivore fishes which were filling the lake the micronation had taken a mortal bath two weeks before he was carried here in a car trunk.

Poorly weeping his blood-covered hands on his trousers, the only alive country in the house walked over to the white figure and grabbed it under what left from its armpit. As soon as they were lifted, all the bones knocked together in a sinister music from the criminal's shakings.

Said nation went back to the living-room carrying Sealand at arm's length, trying one the one hand to not dirty the skeleton with blood, and on the other hand to restrain his spasms and stop the terrible noise. When he finally reached his destination, he nearly threw the poor principality's remains between the two other corpses and collapsed on the floor, trying to breathe through a windpipe congested with tears, drools and snivel. After a couple of minute in a nearly epileptic state, he finally managed to calm down a little and raised his head to glance at the sofa.

The sight of the three bodies immediately calms him down. He stopped to cry and shake, and his desperate face slowly turned into a peaceful and relieved expression.

_So beautiful._

France's cadaver was now completely covered in blood, dying his skin and clothes a uniform tint of red.  _A large crimson band._ At Francis' left, Sealand was sat, his skinless skull fixing his expression on a teethfull smile.  _A tiny white band._ At the micronation's other side, England's corpse was resting, perfectly symmetrical to the Frenchman's.  _Another large crimson band._

"So beautiful."

The author of the carnage was now showing an expression of pure euphoria.

"This is too real too be a dream, right ?" His voice was now steady and confident. "Painted with blood and tears…"

The killer paused a few seconds, enjoying the silent, the iron smell, and, mainly, the sight of the three dead bodies before him.

"This is my flag."

Hereupon, Latvia turned his backs to his victims and headed to the basement, in order to go and get the oil drum he had bought the day before and destroy all evidence of his crimes.


End file.
